


Camping and Chocolate Cake

by darlingdontbeafraid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 years is a long time!, Crying, First Kiss, Flowers, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of weapons, Post-Canon, Quotes from the TV series, a lot of fluff, mentions of drug use, the author subtly drags conservative leaning America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-04-08 03:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19099153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingdontbeafraid/pseuds/darlingdontbeafraid
Summary: Crowley stands in Aziraphale’s skin. It’s odd, though not unpleasant. Aziraphale feels like coffee shops, tartan and you go too fast for me, Crowley.Crowley convinces Aziraphale to try out camping. Aziraphale convinces Crowley to try out a few other things. Certain feelings become unavoidable.





	Camping and Chocolate Cake

**Author's Note:**

> I have a million other projects on the backburner, but the Good Omens tv series Would Not Let Me Rest until I wrote something. 
> 
> I read the book a while back and loved it. The series brought everything back and more.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“We ought to try camping.”

“Camping?”

“Yeah, camping. When you go out in the forest and… camp.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Is that it?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, hoping Aziraphale could see under the sunglasses. Crowley had found the original pair of his current style in some dark-walled, slightly leather-scented hole-in-the-wall shop. Since then, he’d made sure to keep at least thirteen pairs in the Bentley at all times. Keeping six hundred and sixty six pairs would have been amusing, but the Bentley lacked that much storage (and using his powers to expand the compartments would ruin the Bentley’s integrity. One did not go around modifying things that were already perfect.)

“No, of course that’s not it. There’s hiking. Making campfires. Pitching a tent.”

Aziraphale did not look convinced.

“Reading by the firelight? Putting together smores?” Crowley raised his eyebrows, trying to appeal in the style of a poor, lost kitten.

Aziraphale was wavering, he could tell. His mouth had gone all pinched.

“We could find some cozy little restaurant,” Crowley tilted his head toward Aziraphale, who sat next to him in the Bentley. He stretched an arm up and fanned his fingers. “Where they have good tea and you can smell hot food cooking as you walk in the door. Maybe there’ll be a little bell that chimes, and the regulars go sit at the counter, and we sit in the middle and use up all the sugar packets…”

Aziraphale’s mouth pinched even more. “We can find that here,” he said. “It just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing either of us would like. Hiking, Crowley?”

“How do we know if we’ve never tried it?”

“You must miss when humans threw their own feces out of windows,” Aziraphale said, finicky. “Where would we go, anyway?”

“I slept through most of that. And I’ve heard it didn’t happen as much as people think. Anyway! Warm bread… buttered croissants… fruit with chocolate all over it…”

Crowley pretended to think, giving Aziraphale more time to marinate in thoughts about the restaurants they would find. He’d already been tossing the idea of a trip to America back and forth in his head. After a moment more, he replied, “America.”

“And how would we get there?”

“Well, we could take an aeroplane… or someone could miracle us over…”

Aziraphale was trying to seem affronted, with his face holding back the floodgates on a grin, but he wasn’t very good at it.

A moment later, Crowley opened his eyes to a cup of steaming coffee sitting on a water-ringed table. There was a sweet smell clinging in the air, and conversation that he couldn’t quite make out from a few tables over.

“All that talk of food,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation. He already had a fork in hand and a stack of silver dollar pancakes.

Something warm and very un-demonlike flooded into Crowley’s chest.

“I brought over the Bentley.” Aziraphale missed the smile blooming across the table, already engrossed in flour and buttermilk. “I wish they had tea here, though.”

“Hey, you, the jumper!” Crowley called across the small, creaky wood-floored diner, startling a young waitress who had been wiping a glass. She came over, wide-eyed. Probably wondering what the strange man wearing sunglasses indoors who sat across from someone who could be mistaken for a dandelion with a bow tie wanted. Maybe she was wondering how they got here, because hadn’t that table been empty? 

Aziraphale gave him a look that said _that bordered on rude, Crowley._

Crowley put on his second most persuasive voice. “Can you make my friend here a cup of tea?”

The waitress’s eyes flicked from Crowley to Aziraphale, who was smiling kindly at her, and began, “We don’t—“

“I think you’ll find a box of Nilgiri in the second cupboard above the sink,” Crowley said, smiling at her as well.

The waitress was definitely wondering about them now, oh yes. She opened her mouth, closed it, and scurried back behind the counter to find the tea that hadn’t been there before.

“You didn’t need to worry her,” Aziraphale said, only chastising lightly. “But thank you.” He grinned, the one than lit up his face and would have brightened the halo round his head if it had been there.

The un-demonlike thing spread up his neck. To cover it, he said, “You brought the Bentley. Only paying my dues.”

The waitress returned astonishingly fast and practically threw the tea down. She offered them both a sort of grimace that wanted to be a smile and hurried off. Aziraphale waved his finger at her, and her shoulders relaxed.

“There.” And Crowley got to watch him eat and drink his tea and smile. 

^^^^^^

“Now, first thing’s first,” Crowley gushed, “we need camping supplies. A tent, a compass, backpacks, sleeping bags—“

“—matches, water bottles, ooh, we should get one of those camp rugs for in front of the tent—“

“—an axe, pots, what do we need a camp rug for? a stovetop—“

“—to put the folding table on.”

“Ah. Add that to the list.”

Aziraphale nodded and penned it down in his notebook, taking tottering steps as they ambled along the sidewalk. Crowley walked in front of him, at this moment going backwards, arms flung out to divert people out of Aziraphale’s path.

“We don’t know where any camp supply shops are,” Aziraphale said once he looked up. “Hello, excuse me, I don’t mean to trouble you, but do you know where we can find camping supplies around here?”

He stopped a middle aged man wearing a fanny pack. The man screamed HELLO, I’M A HAPLESS TOURIST!

Or else, he would have, if that was the kind of thing people went around yelling. He was looking at a crumpled map in one hand, a chunky camera in the other, and oh Go— Sa— he had socks and crocs. The purple Hawaiian shirt really completed the look (and complimented his eyes). 

The man looked at Aziraphale, weary of his excitable tone and all-shades-of-beige get up. Then he looked at Crowley’s immaculate black suit, necklace, and pitch dark sunglasses. He blinked. “Uh, I think there’s one down the road,” and he pointed in the direction they had been traveling.

Aziraphale clapped his hands, beaming. “Bless you, you’re very helpful. May you have a pleasant day.”

The man nodded slowly and slipped backwards into the crowd. Crowley gave him a surly look.

Crowley and Aziraphale continued down the sidewalk, Crowley walking in front and Aziraphale behind as he wrote things down.

It was a nice little town, wherever they were. The road, full of traffic and people on bicycles and people walking across the street, was walled on either side with pavement sidewalks in a color that nearly matched Aziraphale’s clothes. Shops lined both sides of the concrete. Shoppers went in and out, antlike and preoccupied with themselves. The shops seemed to be selling everything from hard candy to handmade jewelry to stuffed animals. A plethora of thin signs with eye-damaging decorative font covered the fronts of some shops. Each toted sayings like IF MOMMA AIN’T HAPPY, NOBODY HAPPY! and IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE! and PUT ON YOUR BIG GIRL PANTIES AND DEAL WITH IT!

Crowley was concerned when a lined old woman picked up a sign reading DUE TO HIGH AMMO PRICES, I CAN NO LONGER PROVIDE A WARNING SHOT with a wood burned image of a pistol underneath.

 _They came up with those themselves,_ he thought.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Where exactly are we?”

“Ehm,” Aziraphale shrugged, “upstate New York, I think. Or maybe it’s Pennsylvania.” 

“Is weed legal here?”

“No idea, probably not. It’s not legal in Soho, either.”

“Oh, don’t give me that look, it wasn’t always illegal. And breaking laws _is_ part of my job.”

Aziraphale huffed in a way that Crowley knew meant _I’ll let it slide, but only for you._

“And besides, I _know_ you’ve done it before.”

“China, 3004. You’ve got me, dear boy. How did you know?”

They chatted companionably about the politics of ancient China, turning a few heads when Aziraphale raised his voice to criticize Shi Huangdi. 

^^^^^^

“Is that it?” Crowley said, tone incredulous. “It’s called Dicks?”

“It appears so,” Aziraphale said, craning his neck to peer at the storefront Crowley had stopped in front of.

“It has been a while since we’ve been to the US, but really? Dicks? And the apostrophe is made of balls?” 

Crowley couldn’t help snickering. He blamed his amusement at twelve year old boy humor on demonhood. Bad influences and all. 

He blamed a lot of things on being a demon. But that didn’t do to think about.

“Dick’s Sporting Goods,” Aziraphale said, matter of fact, and strode in with the confidence of an olympic medalist. 

Crowley sputtered behind him for a second, then rushed to catch up.

^^^^^^

“Do you think we need shower shoes?” One of the men asked, holding two pairs of cheap flip flops with holes cut in the soles up for inspection. 

“When was the last time either of us showered?” said the one pushing a near-overflowing shopping cart. He would have been very at home in a grandmother’s kitchen, sewing a doily and eating cookies all while running a book review, Cirice thought as the pair wandered closer to her checkout till.

The red head conceded with a nod and an exaggerated pout. “Good point, angel. We need the trainers, though.”

Cirice noticed two things as they started putting items on the conveyor belt: they were very British, and standing very close together. Her mind flicked to the no showering statement. It wasn’t the strangest thing she’d ever heard a customer say, but her colleagues deserved to hear it. They kept a tally of who checked out the strangest customers to pass time while stocking rows and rows of athleisure products.

“Hello, how are you?” The grandma’s-kitchen one asked with a warm smile. Cirice smiled back— unlike most people that asked the most general small talk starter known to man, he appeared like he genuinely wanted to know.

“Actually, pretty well. I have a date tonight,” she answered, feeling her olive cheeks warm. She hadn’t planned on an honest answer, but something about this odd bleach-blond prompted it.

He beamed, and the redhead smirked. “That’s wonderful! I hope you and the lucky lad or lady have a marvelous time.”

“Go to a park,” the redhead suggested.

“One with ducks.”

“Ducks?”

“Bring bread. They’re fond of pumpernickel.” 

“Or,” the redhead said, “find a nice garden and hope it rains.”

Blondie turned his head, giving the redhead the mushiest look Cirice had seen since watching _Pride and Prejudice_ in middle school. Mr. Darcy in the rain had nothing on him. “Crowley?” The name came out tentative. 

Crowley— must be Mr. Sunglasses, she thought, swept off into the store’s interior.

Cirice frowned at Grandma’s Kitchen, who was watching Crowley‘s retreat. “Intimacy issues?”

“Huh?” He spun around.

“Communication is the most important thing,” Cirice told him. “It’s none of my business, but you two seem like a strong couple, and there's always a few bumps along the way.”

At the words “strong couple”, the corners of the man’s mouth turned up in a wide grin. 

“Thanks for the advice,” Cirice said, checking out the last few items (three flashlights, a set of pots and pans, plastic forks, a tarp, and a very ugly rug). “I think she’d like the park or a garden. Maybe we’ll do both.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said. The smile had guttered out. He took another long glance at the store’s interior.

^^^^^^

“Stupid, stupid, that was not the thing to say,” Crowley said. He was, well, not hiding, but, waiting, for a bit, in the kayaking section.

Phrases like that had been tumbling out of his mouth ever since— well.

The acrid scent of smoke, burning the back of his throat, choking him, making screaming AZIRAPHALE much more difficult. The cracking of timbers and sound of singeing paper, filling his ears and crystallizing one thought _(fireisithellfiretheonethingthatangelscant)._

Crowley shook his head, forcing the memories away. He loosed his hands from the kayak paddle they’d bent around. Aziraphale was fine. He was perfectly, wonderfully fine. And a little flirting never hurt them before. They’d been doing it since the beginning, no harm done. What did it matter if throwaway compliments had a teeny bit more meaning now? And what did it matter if Crowley got the sense they were heading toward instead of sticking in 1967? Hell and Heaven refusing to drop in didn’t give him dizzying feelings, either. 

If certain things Crowley Did Not Think About went into a fucking blazing supernova after the bookshop burned down, well— that was life, viva la vie boheme. 

Much more than a teeny bit, if he was honest. Crowley shook his head; since when were words like “teeny” in his vocabulary? All the angel’s fault, surely. The angel, waiting for him by now. Crowley went to find him, grabbing a kayak paddle on the way (“I went back to get this.” “We might need it. It’s always good to be prepared, Crowley.”)

^^^^^^

“My shoes are wet!”

“So are mine, angel. It’s part of the experience,” Crowley said, dipping his paddle into the glass-smooth water’s surface, sending a spiral of white-ringed ripples far from the kayak’s side. They met a cluster of stray lily pads and ricocheted back and forth, back and forth, in a rhythmic dance.

“I don’t think I’m a fan of this,” Aziraphale’s tone was fussy, the way he got over stains and macarons with too many air bubbles.

Crowley huffed a laugh. “We can turn around, if you like. But we just got out here.”

The process of putting the kayak in the lake had taken longer than expected.

(“Are you supposed to set it down then crawl in?”

“I’ve no idea. Won’t it float away?”

“If we hold on, no.”

“You take that bit— no, that one—“

“This isn’t holy water, is it?”

“Don’t make jokes about that.”

Then there had been a penitent silence, followed by an excessive amount of histrionic expounding on the virtue of gallows humor. When that didn’t bring the desired effect, Crowley tried profuse apology. Then Aziraphale threatened to levitate playing cards and the matter dropped by unspoken agreement.)

Aziraphale breathed what could have been a sigh, but the back of his head shook in the negative.

“At least it’s pretty out here,” he said, though the grumpiness had drifted somewhere that wasn’t sun warmed and buzzing with dragonflies. Probably because his shoes had inexplicably dried themselves.

“Isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. ‘This place is beautiful” would’ve been a mere statement of fact, bordering understatement.

A mountain loomed in the distance, covered in a blanket of pine trees that colored its surface teal. Mist clung on the peak; pale rock peeked out in patches underneath.

The lake itself was a wide expanse of satin blue, a sheet rippling with wind on a clothesline someplace with bright windows and a yellow door. Light bounced off the gentle waves, highlighting their zeniths brilliant white while leaving their undersides a blue dark enough to be considered black. The banks were visible, ringed with thick tree cover and craggly rocks. Smoke curled its fingers into the cloudless sky from occupied campsites.

Wind whistled past Crowley’s ears, carrying Aziraphale’s voice back to him. Crowley opted for the back seat of the kayak, citing how the sunlight would bother his eyes if he sat in the first seat.

In reality, he wanted to watch Aziraphale without the bother of turning his head. A storage divot in the kayak (full of sandwiches, one of the flashlights, two rain slickers, and a hatchet that Crowley insisted on packing) was all that separated them. If he wanted, Crowley could lean forward and bonk Aziraphale in the head with his paddle. It would be so easy. Leaning in might not even be necessary.

“Wot?” Crowley asked.

“We should pop over there, I said,” Aziraphale turned to look at him, pointing to a section due west where the shoreline closed into a slow flowing tributary clotted with greenery.

Crowley nodded. Then acted on temptation.

“Crowley!”

“Be glad I didn’t toss the sandwiches overboard.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aziraphale warned.

Crowley’s mouth turned in a devilish grin.

“Don’t—!”

But it was too late. They made a delightful plop noise when thrown like frisbees.

“We’ll just have to get dinner then, won’t we?”

Aziraphale gave him a Look. One that said _you better find a good spot, one with strawberry ice cream cake for dessert._

Crowley tilted back in his kayak seat to acknowledge the Look and promise he’d find someplace with cake and nice lighting, too. 

“Better paddle if you want to get over there before sundown,” Crowley drawled.

Aziraphale smirked. “We’ll get there in a jiff.”

He leaned over the kayak’s front end, but Crowley couldn’t tell what he was doing. Crowley craned forward, angling to see.

Cold water that smelled of fish hit him squarely in the face, soaking his shirtfront and beading drops on the insides of his sunglasses. “Ohhh, so that’s how you want to play it, angel?” he grinned. Water dripped down the side of his nose. It tickled.

Aziraphale played coy, lifting his eyebrows too far. He stuck his nose in the air just slightly, just enough for him to deny it later. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Thought we could take up a rousing Uno game after we eat the— oh, yes, the fish food.”

“I’m just feeding God’s creatures,” Crowley waved a hand at the water housing said creatures. “Fish need proper nutrition, you know.” His paddle arched a spray of water into the air before Aziraphale could’ve thought about replying. It hit a direct bullseye.

Without a beat Aziraphale yanked a rain slicker from the storage and dunked the hood in the lake.

“This is your last warning. Prepare to feel my wrath,” the tone was serious, but the smile in one corner of his mouth gave him away.

“You? Wrath?” Crowley teased. “You refused to kill a mosquito earlier. And I had to chase away the chipmunk eyeing the tent posts when we set up. I’d like to see you try.”

“You would, hmm?” A bead of water dripped down the rain slicker’s overfull skin, as if reminding Crowley how cold it would be over his head.

“Maybe you only admit you get cross with me. Does the name ‘Gabriel’ chime any pissed-off bells?”

“Customers are worse. At least Gabriel is too busy to check up,” Aziraphale said. “Especially these days. Customers come at all hours and… fondle the literature.” He scowled, no doubt thinking of a sticky-fingered child or chatty old buggers who hung round much too long.

“Mm, yes, literature fondling. I invented that, y’know. Big sin. Huge. Unbelievable how many commendations I’ve gotten.”

“I’m sure.” Aziraphale’s tone was warm; an old, familiar coat Crowley wanted to wear forever.

“I must be special to bring out that bit of a bastard in you and have you admit it.”

“More than you could ever know.”

Crowley misheard. That must have been it, yes. No reason for the jolt deep in his belly and no reason for his heart to be pounding bongos like an overexcited four year old.

Aziraphale was watching him. Scrutinizing. Examining. Calculating? There was something in his expression that cropped up on occasion. This one reminded him of the bombed church in ‘41. 

Crowley swallowed. He was glad of his sunglasses and the water cooling his cheeks. “Heart to heart is over! Time to go thataway!”

He began to paddle, not looking at Aziraphale. Who was— Crowley flicked a glance— still watching him. And holding the rain slicker.

“Come on, come on, daylight’s wasting,” Crowley’s vocal chords decided his words sounded better in a squeak. He began paddling, putting in much more focus than strictly necessary.

He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes burn over him a second longer, then they dragged back to the thinning lake. “We have time. All the time in the world.

Damn, now he was being cryptic, that was never good. Crowley paddled. He made sure to think of nothing else.

^^^^^^

Practice slowly turned their paddling from sloth that had one tequila too many to first-year Boy Scout who’d at least been in a boat. It became a gentle pull and release, pull and release, click the paddle against the kayak. It was by no means tidy nor was it graceful, but it worked.

Conversation lulled, lazy as the heat spilling from the almost-setting sun. What was said was quiet, introspective. It was companionable. Thank Some Entity they’d learned to coexist with a little awkwardness. 

Pink-bottomed flowers poked through the water, attached in clusters to larger lily pads. Crowley could see beams of light overhead, sliced through by fragrant pine trees on the shoreline. A section of light landed on Aziraphale’s back, illuminating each strand of hair in honey gold.

Frogs croaked, cloaked from view in the abundant vegetation lining either side of the shoreline. Tall, spiky plants reached for the sky while itty bitty single-leaves coated the water’s surface. A neon blue dragonfly paused on the tip of Crowley’s paddle before he dipped it into the water once more, dispelling the itty bitty plants and sending a gentle wave behind them.

It was a wonder there were any frogs at all; their paddling was frighteningly loud when superimposed over low-buzzing insects and the frequent chortle of birds. Maybe they were used to it. He suggested as much to Aziraphale.

“Perhaps they don’t hear it at all.”

“Isn’t that a bit superfluous?”

Aziraphale turned to look at him. “Is that a complaint? If you’d rather they all hopped away about their business…”

Crowley shrugged, turning his palms skyward. “Just saying. Though it’s not like Heaven’s keeping track anymore.”

“I’m not sure they ever did, in a way that mattered. They kept track of— some things more than others.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raised.

“Fraternizing.” Aziraphale sounded guarded.

“Oh.” Crowley did not want to examine that at the moment. It could wait till dark when the world went still, holding its breath. “Well, that’s not an issue anymore. We can fraternize all we’d like.”

Aziraphale broke into a gentle smile, aimed right at Crowley’s heart. Or at least that’s what it felt like.

^^^^^^

The wet rain slicker sat near-forgotten the storage compartment, condensation puddling over its edges. Aziraphale had tied off the hood, reminding Crowley he had a dinner date— dinner debt— to pay off.

Crowley wanted to soak up each particle of sunlight like he were a sponge. It was so warm on his back, his neck. If Aziraphale were to touch his hair, he’d find it pleasantly warm, soft, too, of course...

^^^^^^

The sunglasses were falling down Crowley’s nose. Aziraphale wanted to fix them, but not waking Crowley was more important.

It was easy to see snake’s instincts lingering in Crowley on occasion. When he hissed on accident (Aziraphale found that very charming), or blathered random syllables as if his tongue forgot it wasn’t forked, or fell asleep in the sun.

His head slumped forward, propped by one hand. It looked uncomfortable; Aziraphale’s neck twinged just seeing it. He fixed the issue.

Feeling pleased, Aziraphale stretched with a yawn. Angels didn’t experience tiredness or hunger or anything else unless they wanted to. The sound of slow moving water was miasmatic, as was sun bronzing the late afternoon. Crowley had the right idea, perhaps he would just shut his eyes a mo and let the world go on by itself a while.

^^^^^^

_Crowley stands in Aziraphale’s skin. It’s odd, though not unpleasant. Aziraphale feels like coffee shops, tartan and you go too fast for me, Crowley._

_Colors blur, swirling in front of him. He reaches his hand out to them, scrabbling to hold them or make sense of the way they tingle against him or a combination of both. The hand is Aziraphale’s. So is the arm and the shoulder and everything else._

_A sound escapes Aziraphale’s throat. Crowley put it there. The opal and pink and strands of deep green slow to near-halt. Crowley can see light from inside the mass of gently writhing color. It’s a sauce left to its own devices, bubbling and sizzling and making the air smell nice._

_Crowley thinks he should go through the mass. It seems right in a way he can’t explain._

_He does. The colors are slimy, cold. They trail sickly Hastur-green over Aziraphale’s jacket._

_Crowley knows he won’t be able to get it out._

_He’s in a chair. His wrists are tied down with white rope that shines in the light. The air carries the scent of smoke._

_Crowley can’t move. He tries to stand up, then to move an arm, then to blink. Nothing, not a twitch._

_“Just shut up and die already,” says a voice. The smoke smell gets stronger, and it’s beginning to fill the air._

_He tries to move once more. He wants to leap up and toss the chair at the voice. Instead, Aziraphale’s_

_(or is it his own?)_

_heart picks up a rapid tempo. The chair is in the bookshop now. Smoke morphs to fire, licking up the walls and eating Aziraphale’s collection of first edition Oscar Wildes._

_Crowley still can’t move. He might be in his own body or he might be in Aziraphale’s— it’s impossible to tell. Heat scorches too close and he still can’t fucking do a thing about it._

_The wallpaper is bubbling. Newly born ash flutters in the air as the shelves topple into orange flame._

_Crowley’s tongue is sandpaper. His mouth tastes like soap and_ anywhere you want to go.

^^^^^^

_Aziraphale is trying to contact Heaven._

_He’s got the right sigils, drawn up in white on the floor. He’s got the candles dripping wax quite nicely. But Upstairs doesn’t seem to be listening._

_“Hello!” He calls, trying not to sound irate. “I need to talk to a higher up!”_

_Nothing happens, other than a little wax dribbling on white tile._

_“Are the plants—“ he picks up a pot and moves one out of the way, treating it gently. These are Crowley’s, after all, can’t be mucking them up— “interfering with the signal?”_

_Still nothing._

_“Is everyone breaking for tea or something?!”_

_Heaven remains silent. Figures. He needs to ask about what comes next. He catches himself thinking about it, every once in a while. It, whatever It is, feels far off, thank God. But something else seems inevitable, waiting patiently in the eves._

_Maybe it waits in the Ritz’s fancy napkins or the Bentley’s leather seats. It waits among nightingales, that much he can tell._

_A part of Aziraphale, the part that tries to follow orders and says things like_ I don’t even like you! _and_ There is no our side, Crowley! Not anymore! _can’t help but give up on Heaven in the moment. The rest had already, a long time ago. If they don’t want to talk to him, then good riddance._

_There’s time. So much time, coiling out in front of him. But some things have gone on much too long, the dream tells him. He’d been thinking that himself recently._

Aziraphale wakes. He blinks at the almost purple twilight. There’s a bat or two squeaking overhead. A duck splashes into the water, sending ripples and foam across the water. 

His eyes find Crowley, who’s still asleep. His face is tight, pained. He mutters something unintelligible. It does not sound nice. 

“Crowley? Crowley, wake up!” 

“Hmmph?” 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yeah, yea— jus’ fine— wha time’s it?” 

Crowley blinked owlishly, taking in the darkening sky. “How long’ve I been out?” 

“A good while, I should think. I’ve been asleep too, just after you.” 

Crowley’s lips split in a slow smile that could be easily labeled as languid, maybe even luxurious. “Thought you didn’t like sleeping?” 

He didn’t, usually. The protest felt token even to his own ears. Crowley nodded like he’d heard that one before (he had, several times). But it was nice to slow down and relax the human way once in a while. One of the human ways, anyway. 

“Has anyone ever told you they value you?” Crowley said. He did the thing with his voice that made it sound smooth and confident but meant he was quivering like a leaf internally. “And by anyone I mean Heaven. And not the thwarting or the miracles, either. Have they told you how good you are?” 

Aziraphale didn’t have to think about his answer, but paused nonetheless. “No, not that I can recall. And I can recall a lot. Crowley, what are you getting at?” 

“Oh, nothing.” Which meant there was something important. 

“What?” 

“You don’t have to get snippy,” Crowley pouted. 

“I’m not snippy, I’m concerned. What is it?” 

Aziraphale could tell when Crowley was fibbing. He was doing it right now, wily old serpent that he was. He did have such shiny scales as a snake; Aziraphale ought to ask if he could show them off more often. 

“I value you,” Crowley said. He pulled down his sunglasses. 

Muted warmth filled Aziraphale. The sentiment was positively lovely, and Crowley meant it, but there was something else. It was uncharacteristic of Crowley to ask about Heaven’s machinations. He preferred not to talk about it, or make fun when he did. 

“I value you too, Crowley. Where would humans be without you? Where would the plants and the animals be? Where would Adam be? The world wouldn’t have survived without you, Crowley. Heaven and Hell were adamant on war.” Aziraphale said in his gentlest, fondest tone. “I wouldn’t have been able to stop them alone.” 

Crowley just blinked. His mouth opened then closed. 

“Where would I be without you?” Aziraphale said, letting his heart find a place in the words. It was so easy when Crowley’s eyes were bright and wide-pupiled in the almost darkness. It had been easy since the first rain. “But there’s a problem, I know it. Can you tell me?” 

Crowley did not answer right away, as if he were picking the most immediate problem for sharing. “Do the other angels always treat you so terribly?” 

“This about the switch? What did they say?” 

“... they were just very rude, that’s all.” 

Aziraphale nodded. He could guess. After all, there had been six thousand years for the other angels to decide they didn’t fancy him much, and it was hard not to notice. 

“The other demons weren’t exactly receptive, either.” 

“Yes, but that’s their job. My job.” He frowned. “Angelssss are supposed to be fundamentally good. Like you.” 

“ _Crowley—_ ” Aziraphale sighed, sweetly. 

“—that doesn’t mean you’re always nice, but you’re— you—“ 

Aziraphale watched him struggle through the words. The night was closing in around them, settling the insects and birds. The frogs croaked louder now, excited for coming dark. Aziraphale had the sudden urge to open his wings and let the breeze pass over the feathers. It was exhilarating, sitting here, so near. It had the same flaming, deep-in-his-gut-radiating-to-every-nerve anticipation plunging off tall buildings and waiting for wind currents to snatch him did. Looking at Crowley’s slouching form made him want to kiss him and feel cold air on his face and waltz right up to Gabriel’s office, tell him to piss off, and spit in Uriel’s coffee while he was at it. And Michael’s. Especially Michael’s. 

It was time. Their respective offices hadn’t said boo since the kidnapping. Aziraphale finally had nothing to lose and everything to gain. He knew, and so did Crowley. 

“—you’re, and I, and all this time, we, I mean, you know—“ 

“Yes.” 

“—and Alpha Centauri and— what?” Crowley’s eyes snapped up for the first time since he’d started babbling. 

“Yes. Come here, I want to do something.” 

Crowley’s expression switched from stilted concentration to utter shock in the time it took to blink. Aziraphale chuckled, and leaned over when Crowley didn’t move. 

“You want to what?” 

Crowley was going to explode. If he met Aziraphale’s eye one more time he would burst apart and a bunch of demon goo would go all over and probably poison the fish. 

“I think you’d look handsome with a flower in your hair,” Aziraphale fucking _purred._ Crowley wasn’t going to explode; he was going to have a major cardiac event and discorporate. How would he explain that one in the paperwork? Hey, Beelzebub, how’re things? Good? Good. I need a new body, see, the old one couldn’t handle Aziraphale looking at it like that. Have you anything tougher? I’m not sure this next one’ll be able to handle him either, I’ve been wanting this in some form or other since the Beginning and, you know how that is, and all— 

“Uh, okay, haveatitthen.” Damn it, he was making a fucking loon of himself, oh Sa-, Go, fuck that. 

Aziraphale was ahead of him. He’d already plucked one of the pink dusted lily pad flowers. He beckoned Crowley closer over where the storage compartment had mysteriously gone missing. 

Crowley didn’t think he’d ever be able to speak again because of the smile gracing Aziraphale’s face. It was one of the special ones that lit him up from within, shining his eyes and crinkling their corners. Purposeful fingers wrapped the flower’s dripping stem around Crowley’s ear, brushing cartilage. It held, even though the flower’s weight should have dragged it down, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he was doing that or if Aziraphale was. 

Then the fingers swept over the dark tattoo near his cheekbone and down his jaw in one fluid motion. 

Not making a stupid noise was impossible. 

“Er,” said Crowley. 

“This would work better if your hair was longer,” Aziraphale murmured, running a hand down Crowley’s arm. 

“Not that long, dear,” he said, pushing floor length red hair out of his lap and into the kayak. 

The light-up smile was still there, allowing a mumbled sorry out and nothing else. 

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.” Aziraphale’s gaze went steely for a moment, and he wrapped his hands around Crowley’s arms. Then he softened and kissed Crowley’s forehead. 

Crowley said “oahgh,” and promptly toppled into the water. 

^^^^^^ 

“Better?” 

“Much.” Crowley sat cross legged in the tent, a blanket nestled around his shoulders. Aziraphale was whisking together chocolate lava cakes and humming, smiling stupidly all the while. 

Crowley pulled his legs up under his chin, observing Aziraphale magic the lava cakes cooked. Not buying an oven had been an oversight. Crowley contributed by dusting powdered sugar on top once Aziraphale was finished waving his hands at the chocolatey smelling pair of cakes. He sat down very close and handed a plate to Crowley. 

Crowley opened two packets of plastic silverware— they were camping, after all— which Aziraphale turned to metal. They never said they’d camp the human way. 

“This is nice,” Crowley said, tone delicate. The tent was dark, peaceful. Aziraphale had miracled him dry and warmed the blanket. The kayak wastill floating on the lake somewhere; Aziraphale had forgotten it in the rush to miracle them back to the campsite. He said he knew it didn’t matter if Crowley was underwater, since technically neither of them needed oxygen, but Crowley might ‘rip his clothes’. Crowley knew a weak excuse for concern when he heard one. 

He sighed, then let the cake fill his mouth with rich chocolate. 

Aziraphale nodded around the cake in his mouth. 

“I should’ve taken you out here sooner, sped things along,” Crowley continued. He was starting to feel the exploding sensation again. 

Aziraphale looked wistful. “I should have agreed sooner. Much, much sooner.” He bumped Crowley’s shoulder and tilted his head. 

Oh yes, there it was again. “No— no rush. We have it now.” His heartbeat was picking up in a most annoying fashion. He didn’t even need a heartbeat, much less one that raced like it was going to its first formal dance. 

Aziraphale put his plate and fork down. He bent in, over Crowley, close enough for Crowley to feel his radiated heat. His blue eyes twinkled with becoming mischief as he lifted the plate from Crowley’s hands, set it aside, and laced his fingers through Crowley’s. 

“You’re blushing,” Aziraphale told him, as if he didn’t know. “And you’ve got cake right there—“ Aziraphale touched the corner of Crowley’s mouth with a finger. 

“Angel,” Crowley wheezed. “You’re torturing me here. I knew you were a tease but—“ 

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss. The only thought running through Crowley’s brain at that moment was _it only took 6000 years._

^^^^^^ 

They ended up on the mat outside the tent. Crowley suspected Aziraphale had bought it for this express purpose. 

Stars glimmered above them, points of light far in the distance. Crowley had his arm around Aziraphale’s middle. He was warm and very nice to cuddle. 

“Look at that one,” Aziraphale whispered, pointing up into the inky sky. “Is that Alpha Centauri?” He nestled closer to Crowley, wrapping them under the wing he wasn’t lying on. Every part of Crowley was in contact with Aziraphale, and it was better than he’d ever thought. Better than Heaven’s pearly gates. Listening to Queen would improve things, if there was room for improvement, the next time. He looked forward to next time, and the time after, forever. 

“No, don’t think so. I’m not actually sure what it looks like from down here,” he said, prompting an infectious laugh that began in Aziraphale and transferred over, leaving them both breathless. 

“All that talk and you’re not even sure what it looks like from Earth?” Aziraphale was smiling; Crowley could hear it. His face was going to be sore from smiling so much. 

“We’ll just have to visit now that everything’s settled, won’t we?” Crowley pressed his mouth to Aziraphale’s neck. 

“Yes. Anywhere and always, Crowley.” 

“Have I ever told you I love you?” 

Aziraphale tightened his grip and secured his wing over them. It was starting to rain. “Never with words. But you have in action, over and over. I love you, Crowley. I love you with everything I’ve got. I always have.” 

Crowley felt irrational tears prick his eyes. He wanted to return the sentiment, tell Aziraphale about the massive wells of feeling in his heart, but only a noise made it out. 

Aziraphale pulled Crowley up by the hand. “Please don’t cry, Crowley, or we’ll both be blubbering messes,” he said against the rain, encasing them both in the warmth of his wings. 

Crowley hiccuped a laugh and wiped the silent tear running down Aziraphale’s cheek. “Too late.” 

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and tucked his head into his shoulder. Aziraphale held him, sheltering them all the while. The rain picked up. 

They stood like that for a long time, letting tangled emotions unknot and pool around them. Aziraphale lined his heartbeat up in time with Crowley’s, and Crowley aligned their breaths. 

When the sun rose, pink and yellow and new, people making their morning coffee heard the rustle of wingbeats in the air and the sound of carried laughter high above their heads. They wondered what it was, but they inexplicably forgot what they’d been doing after glimpsing a silhouette or two pairs of enormous wings. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
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> Parts of this are inspired by various tumblr posts, as the entire site’s been losing its mind since May, and I’ve been losing mine months before over the book. 
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> I swear to that photo set of micheal sheen in drag, I have seen every single one of those little placard sign things in real life. 
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> I considered Lapsang souchong for Aziraphale’s tea, but the whole smoky roasted over a fire thing was a turn off. 
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> 3004, ancient China: one of the first documented uses of weed in history. 
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> Aziraphale drinks dark, bitter teas while Crowley can only tolerate frou-frou coffee from Starbucks with tons of sugar and whipped cream.


End file.
